


Chase The Stars

by winterwaters



Series: Phoenix Hearts [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Grounder Clarke, Season 1 retread, basically just a huge what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:58:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grounder Clarke AU: Clarke is a <em>Trigedakru</em> healer when Bellamy and the others fall from the sky. She and Bellamy do their best to maintain a peace among their people and become closer in the process. </p><p>Will loosely incorporate events from the show but will also be its own story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> So this is something I’ve been working on for months now, and I’m so thrilled to finally share! It was a bit uncertain for a while - thanks to all who helped out along the way, esp with the language <3 As the summary says, this does go through Season 1, but in its own way. I’d love to hear your thoughts here or on Tumblr. Title from Phoenix Hearts by We The Kings. Hope you enjoy! :)

The first thing Clarke hears is the shouts of her people. She pauses in the midst of grinding herbs, her head snapping up in concern as the cries get louder. On the mat, her patient sits up immediately. Clarke gently pushes the older woman back down. 

“You need to rest,” she says firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

With a glance at Nyko to watch the others, she slips out the door of the small hut. Anya and Lexa are already outside. Indra watches them from a distance and Clarke has to bite back a sigh. These days the woman is always suspicious, always watching. It’s not her fault she wasn’t chosen to lead, same as it wasn’t Lexa or Anya’s fault that they were. She reaches Lexa first and follows her gaze to the sky. What starts out as a dark speck grows larger and larger as it hurtles towards the ground.

Towards _them._

Their people are torn between hiding and running. She looks at her two friends. Her two leaders. “We need to keep everyone here,” she says softly, and they nod in agreement. 

Anya turns to the group and fiercely barks out orders. _“Bak op! Set daun!”_

The black box is still falling.

People scramble to do as she says, their eyes constantly flicking to the sky as they throw water over the fires they just built and slowly herd the young and old inside the larger huts.

Lexa is still staring upwards. “What could it be?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke murmurs.

“Do you think it is _Maun-de's_ doing?"

“No. No, this is not from the mountain. This is… very different.” Clarke’s eyes follow the huge, bulky thing in the sky. Something like dread creeps up her spine. “This will test us all.”

“For our sake, I hope you are wrong.” But Lexa’s expression wavers for the briefest of moments.

Clarke looks around to see most of the people have retreated inside. They should be doing the same, but she knows Lexa and Anya will remain out here. It is not only a show of strength, but a firm reminder that whatever - whoever - is in that contraption in the sky, the Earth is _theirs._ It’s in moments like these that Clarke feels a fierce love for these women. Her sisters.

The thing in the sky is larger now, nearly to them. Its shape becomes clearer only in that it’s no longer a box; Clarke doesn’t have a name for what she sees now.

“It moves too fast.” Anya is standing on her other side, eyes narrowed. “It will crash.” She jerks her head to the trees beyond.

The three women stand shoulder to shoulder and watch the bulky object approach. It takes only a few seconds for Clarke to realize something isn’t right. It still moves quickly, but not uncontrollably fast. She realizes with a start.

“It slows,” she says in astonishment. “How is that possible?”

“There must be some form of control from within,” Lexa answers, though she appears just as puzzled.

“But… there can’t be people in there. People from… the sky?”

It sounds absolutely insane. And yet, Clarke somehow knows it is true. Something is responsible for its flight-- it’s too directed to be simple luck. The object flies past them, this time intentionally, to the area Anya pointed out moments ago. It disappears into the thicket of trees.

Then comes a sharp _boom_ , and the Earth shakes. They grasp each other’s hands tightly, straining to stay upright. Faintly, Clarke hears surprised cries from the huts. A cloud of dust rises from the trees, marking the crash site.

Whatever she’s about to say next gets cut off as a familiar voice echoes behind her. Clarke and Lexa turn to find Lincoln and several others approaching. She smiles at the sight of her oldest friend. To others, he’s a fearsome _Trigedakru_ warrior, but to her Lincoln will always be the boy who patiently taught her how to be still as the forest, how to face her fears one step at a time.

“Let us go scout the area,” he requests immediately. “We will report back by nightfall.”

Clarke waits as Anya and Lexa exchange a glance. It is not her place to make the decision. But when they both nod their consent, she hears herself say, “Let me go too.” When they turn to her, she adds, “If anything happens, it’ll be better to have a healer amongst them. And I’m a good shot.”

She knows they can’t deny her this. Anya gives a hint of a smile and flicks her hand in dismissal. Clarke falls in with the group, feeling the knife at her waist and the bow slung across her back.

It’s time to see what has fallen from the sky.

~~~~~~~~~

It doesn’t take them long to reach the fallen object. They wait silently, hidden amongst the forest with baited breath as a door unfolds outwards. Multiple eyes hesitantly peer out of the pod. Clarke glances over at Lincoln. He shakes his head. Too many to count.

Then a girl with hair the color of the dirt takes a step outside. And another, and another. Her movements are cautious, but hopeful. Lincoln stiffens beside her, and Clarke looks over in question but his gaze is locked on the newcomer. His expression is uncertain, like even he is unaware of how he feels at the moment.

A joyful scream splits the air, and suddenly the rest of the people emerge. There are so many. Clarke’s eyes wander through the group, over the dark and light, the tall and short, the confident and the weak. They’re young. So young.

She finds herself returning to one in particular-- he’s clearly the oldest, more man than boy. He’s tall, with hair like the night sky, whose skin tone reminds her of the silt that seeps through her fingers when she touches the bottom of the riverbed. He hugs the girl - the first girl who came out - with an easy laugh before tussling her hair affectionately. Cautious but hopeful, his dark eyes flick over the trees, and for some reason Clarke feels the urge to duck lower in the brush. It’s silly; she knows she can’t be seen. She’s never seen. But his eyes linger, and her breath catches.

He’s built like a warrior, all angles and sharp lines of muscle under his thin clothing. His voice is deep and authoritative, and when he speaks people hasten to do as he says. There’s no doubt he’s the leader of this strange group.

“Bellamy!”

His head turns towards the shout and he strides away. Clarke tastes the name on her tongue. _Belomi._ It’s not unwelcome, she finds.

The kids are loud and enthusiastic, careless in their celebration. They clearly have no idea what kind of world they’ve just entered. Clarke looks back at the peak of the mountain in the distance. It won’t be long before the Mountain Men know they’re here - if they don’t already.

A quick look at her team tells her they’re thinking the same thing. The last thing they need is for the men to venture into the woods again. Still, she can’t help but watch a little longer as the newcomers cheer and shout with glee, splashing through puddles and touching the soil as if for the first time. It’s been so long since she knew anything besides the endless cycle of forging for food, making shelter, and hiding. Clarke both longs for and pities their innocence.

It’s late in the day when they finally pull back, leaving only one behind to keep watch from the trees. They return to the village in a thoughtful, mostly silent mood. Lexa finds them first and leads them into her hut.

“Well?” The question is directed at all of them, but she’s looking at Clarke.

Clarke exchanges a glance with Lincoln before replying. “There’s near a hundred. _Youngons._ My age, I suppose. They don’t appear to have a clear mission, though their technology is advanced. Darrin stayed behind to keep a lookout overnight. They didn’t show any ill will.”

“And when they learn of us, do you think that will hold?”

“I do not know.” Clarke lifts a shoulder in apology. “But if we can control the first meeting, maybe we can also steer the outcome.”

Lexa nods, her face drawn in thought. “I would hear from each of you before I take the news to our Commander,” she finally says.

Clarke excuses herself to return to the medical hut, suddenly thankful to be among the familiar fumes and herbs. She checks in on those in the cots before sitting down next to Nyko in the corner.

“Things will change now,” he says solemnly, and she nods.

Yes, things will change. For better or worse, though, she doesn’t know which.

~~~~~~~~~

It’s only morning on the third day when Ronan’s spear impales a young boy. Clarke’s scream mingles with that of the others across the river. They stare in shock and horror as the boy looks down at himself in surprise.

She’s already moving, already dragging him out of sight by the time his people have recovered from their shock. They hover between coming to get him and scattering back to their camp. She doesn’t quite care what they decide.

All she knows is that he has to live.

Lincoln appears beside her and lifts him easily, but they’re too far from the village. Desperately, Clarke motions toward the cave mouth in the distance. He nods and goes ahead of her while she notches an arrow to her bowstring, nodding for Kaiya and Rea to do the same. Their arrows fly quick and true, embedding themselves deep in the dirt at the strangers’ feet in warning.

By some stroke of luck, their leader is not present. Clarke knows if he were here, he would have followed without hesitation. But he isn’t, and so the group flees.

She runs after Lincoln to the cave, motioning to the others to return home. _“Bak op!”_ She doesn’t need anyone else right now. 

When she catches up to them, the boy is lying on the mat, his eyes wide with fear. He gasps for air as his body tries to reject the weapon buried inside it. Lincoln’s eyes follow her as she kneels down next to him, running a soothing hand over his forehead.

“What will you do?” He asks quietly.

“I’m going to save him.”

He pauses. “Do you think that’s wise?” It’s not aggressive, merely curious, but she glares nonetheless.

“He lives.”

From her pack she removes the herbs and poultices, the thick fabric she’d saved just hours earlier. “You’re going to be okay,” she tells the boy. “I will take care of you now.”

She loses track of how long she sits there, prying the tip of the spear loose, soaking up the blood, binding his skin tightly. The boy loses consciousness quickly, as she’d hoped. It eases the process, allows her to properly clean the wound without him shaking or staring at her in fear. She thinks it's the stare she hates the most.

Lincoln remains through it all, sturdy as ever. Not for the first time, she’s thankful for his calm presence. When it’s finally done, she sits back on her heels and wipes her brow. She wants to find Ronan and strangle him with her bare hands for his idiocy. This is far from a promising start. 

“The news will have already reached the Commander,” Lincoln says eventually. “They’ll want to question you.”

“I can handle it,” she says, more tersely than necessary. He nods impassively, though his eyes flicker with concern. Clarke sighs. “What would you have had me do? Let him die? Stranger or not, he’s just a boy.”

He doesn’t answer. There’s a strange empathy - and secrecy - in his eyes that her mind wants to linger on, but there are more pressing matters at hand, so she leaves it. The sun is high in the sky, bearing down brightly when Clarke finally stands.

“We need to return him to his people before nightfall. Any thoughts?”

“Perhaps we can bind him to a tree to keep him upright. When he awakens, he can yell for help.”

It’s not the most appealing option, but it will have to do. Together, they carry him to a wide oak, propping him up carefully against the trunk. He moans a little but doesn’t fully wake as they bind the ropes securely around his waist. Clarke taps his cheek lightly until his eyes flutter. She presses the remaining seaweed into his hand.

“You hold onto this, okay? You’ll need it.” She stares into his eyes until he gives a shaky nod.

“We need to go,” Lincoln says quietly.

She remains crouched on the ground. “How do we know they’ll come this way?” She asks uncertainly.

Lincoln takes a look around before pulling her to her feet. _“Set daun,”_ he instructs firmly. “I’ll be back.” Clarke opens her mouth to protest but he only pushes her towards the trees. “Hide,” he repeats.

So she does, her brown clothes blending in with the earth as she stays low to the ground, letting the overgrown brush take care of the rest. It’s only her blonde hair that worries her. Some days it’s like a beacon; right now, that is the last thing she needs. It’s already mixed with dirt and grime, but she mats it down further, curling her braid into a loose knot by her neck and sinking further into the soil.

The boy wakes a few times, shuddering and panting, but to her satisfaction, continues to clutch the seaweed in his hands.

That’s when she hears the voices. They’re not quite so noisy as the day before - Ronan’s spear has at least scared them that much - but her ears pick up the low tones. One is more familiar than the rest; Bellamy is with them this time.

It’s him who steps into the clearing first, his eyes that widen as he rushes over to the boy. “Jasper!” He shakes him hard as two more join him. “Jasper, come on, wake up.”

The boy - _Jasper_ \- groans and mumbles something, and one of the girls (Lincoln’s brunette, Clarke remembers with a start) cries and hugs him close. Bellamy already has a knife out, sawing through the ropes. They’re getting ready to carry him when he notices the seaweed.

“What’s this?”

Jasper clings to it like a babe to milk. “I… don’t know. She said to keep it.”

“She?” Bellamy crouches to eye level. “Who’s she?”

Clarke holds her breath.

Jasper shakes his head. “Just heard the voice,” he wheezes. “Told me to keep it.”

“Bellamy,” the girl interrupts, “you can continue this later. We need to get back before dark.”

“Yeah, alright.” He stands, the sun glinting off his hair as he swivels in a circle, already scanning the area suspiciously. He’s intelligent, too much so for her liking. Clarke hunkers down even lower. She knows she’s hidden well. She’s done it many times before. So she isn’t sure why she freezes when his gaze lands on her hiding spot, why her heart it suddenly in her throat and her lungs refuse to work as his dark eyes impossibly latch on to hers.

His name is called again, and the spell breaks as he turns to help the others carry the younger boy.

She stays in her spot long after they’ve left, trying to figure out exactly what just happened.

~~~~~~~~~

Clarke isn’t quite sure what makes her return to the spot a day later. She’s only in the forest because it’s better than being in the village, where several sets of eyes seem to descend on her the moment she steps foot outside. It doesn’t help that they’re alternately curious (Lexa), worried (Lincoln), and irritated (Indra). She lasts the morning before escaping on the pretense of finding more plants.

Now she’s standing next to the tree, examining the ropes that still remain and wondering if it’s worth taking them back.

When the sound of footsteps reaches her ears, she panics and darts behind a large tree trunk just in time. Peering out from one side, she sees Bellamy step into view and her heart lurches wildly. If he’d been looking up, he would see her immediately. But he’s not. His head is turned to the ground, scouring the area carefully, and she wonders belatedly if he’s looking for clues to her presence from the day before. Then he crouches to examine a small plant, and his goal becomes clear.

He needs more seaweed.

Clarke chews her lip in thought. What she gave Jasper should have been enough to last a full night and day, at least. Unless something happened to make him worse. She watches Bellamy kick in frustration at the ground before moving to the next plant. Same thing. Clarke knows he’s looking in the wrong area, but there’s no way to tell him so without revealing herself. He’s preoccupied enough that she could sneak away right now without any trouble.

But if he’s here, that means the other boy is in trouble. Her decision is made when Bellamy reaches out to touch an overgrown dotted green plant with jagged leaves.

She’s behind him in a flash, her knife at his throat before he can fully register what’s going on.

“I would not do that,” she warns.

Bellamy’s entire body freezes. His shoulders lock in a tense line, his outstretched hand still hanging in the air. She feels him swallow against the tip of her blade, and for a moment she’s distracted by the motion. Then Bellamy throws himself into her legs, taking her to the ground in a jumble of limbs. Pressure on her wrist makes her drop the knife, but she brings her knee up hard, connecting with his abdomen. The breath leaves him in a gasp. She squirms and struggles, his weight still pinning her down. His fingers dig into her wrists, pressing them into the grass, but he doesn’t make any other move to hurt her.

He simply looks at her, and it’s enough to make her want to run for the hills.

 _”Branwoda!”_ She spits the insult as Indra would. “It is poison.” He blinks in surprise, and she elaborates. “That is Angel’s Breath. A single touch can render one paralyzed.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks ever so slightly. “Surprised you didn’t use it on Jasper,” Bellamy grinds out.

“That was a mistake,” she replies sternly.

“Is that so?” His eyebrow arches in disbelief. “Prove it.”

Suddenly her hands are free and he’s no longer atop her. Clarke sits up, brushing hair from her face. She looks at him carefully. “You will not find seaweed here. It grows by the creek to the east.”

Bellamy’s entire demeanor softens. “It was you, then,” he breathes. “You saved him.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to the awe in his voice, so she ignores it. “I gave him what I had,” she says. “Have you already run out?”

“There’s some left, but O says it won’t be enough for the night.”

“O?”

His expression clears. “Octavia. My sister.”

“Sister… by blood?” Clarke smiles, surprising them both. “You are fortunate.”

Bellamy stares at her for a moment. “I am,” he agrees softly. Just as she wonders what the faraway look in his eyes is about, it’s gone, replaced by steel. “How do I know this isn’t another trap?” He asks suddenly.

Clarke leans back a little. “What?”

“Your people put a spear in one of my men,” he says, and now there’s all kinds of fire in his voice.

“My people put me on trial for saving _your_ man,” Clarke retorts just as fiercely. Nevermind that she’s just revealed something about her village. She’s too angry at herself for letting it get this far. She should have let him touch that stupid plant.

Bellamy’s mouth sets in a grim line, but he doesn’t respond right away. Clarke stands, pointing to the east. “Your seaweed is that way." Bellamy is about to get to his feet when he spies something on the ground. She sees the glint of steel and lunges, too late. Her eyes widen as she scrambles up again.

“That is mine.”

He examines the dagger carefully before tucking it into his belt. “And now it’s mine.”

“It was my father’s,” Clarke hisses, stepping closer. Bellamy looms over her, but it only makes her angrier. “It is not for you… you… Sky People.”

Something in her voice alerts him to her desperation, but his mouth lifts at the corners. “Sky People?”

“You fell from the sky,” she says with a shrug.

Now he’s smiling. The switch in emotions is almost too abrupt to follow. “I guess we did,” he murmurs.

Clarke is still eyeing the hilt at his waist. “Please,” she tries again. “It is all I have left of him.”

Bellamy looks at her for a long moment. “Tell you what. I’ll go to the river like you said and if I find the seaweed, you’ll get your knife back.”

It’s completely reasonable, seeing as she’s not lying, but she still can’t understand why he won’t just give her the damn thing back to begin with. He sees as much, because he sighs.

“Consider it a test,” he says. “I can’t trust your people yet, not after what happened.”

“Can’t you trust _me_?” She asks quietly, even though she realizes they’ve really only known each other for a few minutes.

A hint of a smile appears on his face. “We’ll see.”

She watches him walk away through the trees and curses herself for being soft. Nothing good will come of this.

~~~~~~~~~

Clarke is outside the next day when the first screams echo through the woods. Her head snaps up immediately, following the sound to the trees. The faintest hint of yellow hangs in the air, and she drops everything with a shout.

“Fog!”

Her yell sets off a chain reaction. The word echoes throughout the village as people scatter. Children are scooped up, the elderly are carried if they don’t move fast enough, heavy tarps are thrown onto the huts. Every layer of protection is necessary. They know all too well the consequences otherwise.

Clarke runs back to the medical hut, finding Nyko and Lincoln inside already bringing people down into the cellar underground. She gets the others off their cots, helping along those who can walk. Slowly, they descend the stone steps one by one as she deposits them in a corner. Lincoln tries to catch her as she goes back up, but she slips away easily. Another look out the door shows the yellow mist almost upon them. Hastily, she grabs all the blankets and the basket of rations, ducking back under the trapdoor and yanking it shut behind her.

The cellar is dark, full of only the harsh breaths of patients. She waits atop the steps, until there comes a slight scratching and a candle lights up in the corner. Her eyes adjust slowly, and she makes her way down, handing out blankets before finally taking a seat between Lincoln and Nyko. Her head thuds back against the wall in exhaustion as they wait for the fog to pass. Absently, she wonders if Bellamy and his people have found somewhere to hide. If Jasper is still alive.

 _Survived a spear, but couldn’t escape the fog._ The thought makes her want to laugh maniacally for some reason. She bites down on her cheek.

A nudge makes her look up. Her own worry is reflected in Lincoln’s face. She wonders if he’s thinking about the girl. Bellamy’s sister, she realizes with a start. _Well, shit._

“They’re resourceful,” she says. She’s not sure if the words are meant to reassure him or herself.

“And still above ground,” he replies.

She clasps her hands tightly in her lap. It feels like an eternity before the horn sounds, giving the all clear. She’s up first, hopping up the steps and cracking the door open. Other than the sounds of other people doing the same thing she is, the world is eerily silent. She nods to the two men downstairs and drops down to help bring the patients back.

It’s a while before she’s able to leave. Her first stop is at Lexa’s tent. Her friend clasps her hands tightly. “Everyone is okay?”

“Yes. I haven’t seen Anya-”

“Indra and Tomas are with her,” Lexa says, and Clarke breathes a sigh of relief.

“Good. Were any of our people in the woods?”

Lexa shakes her head. “That I do not know. It was all too fast.”

 _Isn’t it always._ Clarke squeezes her hands one more time before leaving to survey the rest of the village. When it appears most people are unhurt, she returns to her hut and gathers her bow and arrow. That stupid boy still has her knife.

That stupid boy might be dead.

For some reason, she has to know for herself. She opens her door to find Lincoln right outside. He measures her in that quiet way of his. “Going somewhere?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. She knows him too well by now. “You coming or not?”

She brushes by and heads for the forest, smiling to herself when he falls into step beside her. For a while, they are surrounded by the silence that always accompanies the aftermath of the fog. It’s an unnatural sort of stillness, one that makes the hair on her arms stand without knowing why. For once though, the lack of people reassures her, and she begins to wonder if the newcomers maybe did find a way to hide after all.

That’s when she hears the whimper.

It stops her in her tracks. Her ears strain, trying to pinpoint the location. It comes again, more heightened, and she turns. Lincoln puts a finger to his lips and motions to the right. They step carefully between the trees, but her steps hasten as the sounds of pain get louder.

The small clearing holds two people. One is a familiar dark form, hunched over with his back to her. Something like relief washes over Clarke. And then she immediately feels horrid when she registers the person on the ground is the one she’s been hearing. She motions for Lincoln to stay back.

Her next step is purposely loud, echoing like a crack in the silence. She stops as soon as Bellamy spins around, her knife in his hand. But the despair on his face is what knocks the breath out of her. It’s staggering.

The knife lowers immediately and he falls to his knees again. Clarke kneels on the other side of the boy writhing in pain on the ground. Even with the harsh red boils covering his skin, she knows it’s not Jasper. She looks up at Bellamy, who’s staring helplessly down at him. They’re both aware his time is up.

“What is his name?” She whispers.

He takes a shuddering breath. “Atom.”

“Atom,” she repeats. The boy grasps her sleeve, trying to speak but only spitting up blood. She shushes him quickly, brushing a hand over his hair. “Okay, it’s okay,” she croons. “I will help you.”

Her other hand reaches out to curl over the hilt of the knife still in Bellamy’s hand. He doesn’t resist as she slowly pulls it away. Clarke begins to hum, a soft melody that used to surround her when she was just a babe. She doesn’t take her eyes off Atom, continuing to stroke his cheek softly even as the tip of her blade bites into his neck. His gasp becomes a rushed sigh, and then he’s still.

Clarke continues to hum long after he’s gone. It’s all she can give him in place of what would normally be done.

Bellamy is looking at her strangely when she finally lifts her head. Nobody has ever looked at her this way, this odd mix of gratitude and awe and respect and… caring? That cannot be right. Clarke wipes her blade on the ground before tucking it back in her belt, sniffing and clearing her throat.

“Are the rest of your people…?”

“They’re safe,” he answers. “We holed up inside the dropship.”

Behind him, Lincoln visibly relaxes. Clarke tilts her head. “Dropship?” Her mouth stumbles over the unfamiliar word.

“Yeah, the uh, the thing we came down in.”

Oh. That makes sense. “How are your people?” He asks.

She can’t quite hide her surprise, but gives a quick nod. “Unhurt, so far. We are searching the woods for the few who were away when the fog came.”

“We?”

“Me,” she clarifies. “We split up to cover more ground.”

Bellamy seems to accept that. “So what the hell is that fog?”

“I wish I knew. It’s been there since I was a child. All we ever do is hide.” She doesn’t mask her frustration, though she knows it’s not their fault. She looks back down at Atom. “Do you need to bury him?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is thick with grief. “I’ve never had to dig a grave. I don’t even know if we _can._ ” Clarke reaches out to cover his hand with her own. It surprises them both, but then his fingers wrap around hers.

“How- how would you do it?” Bellamy asks.

She hesitates only for a moment. “We do not bury the dead. Their bodies are burned and then the ashes scattered over the ground, so that they may return to the earth in peace.”

“That sounds… I think he’d like that,” he says.

Clarke squeezes his hand. Over his shoulder, she sees Lincoln slowly disappear back into the trees. This time she has no idea what he’s thinking. Bellamy stands, raking a hand through his hair and wearily rubbing his face.

“I can’t get him back to camp alone. I’ll have to go get the others.”

“You should conceal the body first,” she advises. “We’re not the only ones who live on the ground.” The way his eyes widen, she knows he has not encountered a Reaper yet. They drag Atom into the brush, careful to cover him properly.

She thinks this is where they part, but Bellamy surprises her by falling into step beside her as she weaves through the trees. “I thought you were going back to your dropship?” She asks.

“I’ll take the long way,” he answers, and she ducks her head, not sure why the sentiment warms her so much. “I found the seaweed.” Bellamy’s rueful voice brings her eyes back to his. She smiles.

“Good. How is Jasper?”

“Better. Recovering.” He nods tightly. “Thanks to you.”

“He should not have been hurt at all. That was not our intention, Bellamy,” she promises, and hopes he believes her. “The warrior was punished in accordance with clan custom for overstepping his bounds.”

“Punished,” Bellamy repeats slowly. “How?”

She shakes her head. “That is only for _Trikru_ to know.”

Surprisingly, that gets a smile from him. “Fair enough,” he says.

Clarke has so many questions for him, so many things she wants to know. And yet-- she feels like asking even one will only bring more questions, somehow. It’s enough to make her pause, but not enough to make her stop altogether.

“Were there only children on board your dropship?” She asks abruptly. Bellamy’s response is a tight nod. “How-- is that how things are, in the sky?”

The bitterness in this laugh nearly makes her trip. “No. It’s not. There are others. But we… we are the criminals,” he says, and that word she does understand. “In the sky, any crime is punishable by death, if you’re over 18,” Bellamy explains. “If you aren’t 18 yet, they put you in lockup. The sky box, we call it. Anyways, those in charge needed to know if the ground was habitable. Who better to send than delinquents?”

“They did not know if you would survive?” He shakes his head. Clarke struggles to follow the strange rules, finding herself too curious about what his crime might have been. He’s certainly not under 18, so he’s either been locked up for years or… or he found a way onto the ship. There’s so much he has left unsaid; she isn’t surprised. The anger in his voice is too raw.

That’s when they reach the fork in their paths - where she must turn if she’s going to make it back in time so as not to arouse suspicion. Still, she lingers a moment, listening to the breeze whistle through the tree branches.

“Your Skaikru is unlike any others I have met on the ground, Bellamy.”

“Why doesn’t that sound like a good thing?”

She shrugs, kicking at a weed, fully aware that she’s stalling for reasons even she can’t quite pinpoint. But he doesn’t move either.

“I don’t remember telling you my name,” Bellamy says eventually, and she freezes until she sees the crinkle of his eyes.

“I heard one of the others call you that,” is all she offers in reply. He makes a noise of understanding in this throat, then reaches out to take one of her hands in his. His thumb strokes over her skin.

“And what do they call you?”

It takes a moment to find her voice; she doesn’t like how off-balance she feels at the moment. “Clarke.”

“Clarke,” he repeats softly. “Hello.” Not knowing what to do with how her heart jumps, she looks down at their joined hands instead. Their skin tones clash, seemingly another reminder of how different they are. But her fingers weave with his of their own accord, and nothing about that feels wrong at all.

It’s the call of the horn that ultimately saves her from doing anything foolish. Startled by their sudden proximity, she takes several long steps backwards, trying to regain her wits. Bellamy is looking at her similarly dazed, but doesn’t make any move to follow.

“I must go. _Leida,”_ she says, and runs.

She’s panting by the time she reaches her village, lungs desperate for air and heart pounding, but not all of it is due to the mad dash through the forest. Much of it is because of the boy she left behind, and that scares her more than the fog.

It’s Indra who steps in her path first, alarm on her features. Clarke feels the hair on her neck rise in response.

“What’s happened?” She asks instantly.

The older woman gives her a stern onceover, then says, “They have taken Lincoln.”

~~~~~~~~~

“Let me speak with them,” Clarke pleads again.

They’re standing in the Commander’s tent the next day, Anya opposite her while Lexa stands to her side, more uncertain than she’s ever been. Indra’s leaning against the wall in the corner, deceptively casual as she examines her spear. Clarke refuses to let anyone go until she gets her answer. She can't believe they've let even one night pass with Lincoln still in Skaikru's hands. 

“What good do you think that will do?” Anya growls, eyes flashing. “They have made the first move. This is their choice.”

“You don’t know what else is on that ship,” Clarke argues, gripping the table. “If they survived a landing, who knows what other weapons they have brought? You could be sentencing our people to death by declaring war." The two girls trade a glance, but neither speaks. She presses her point. “Listen. I treated that young boy. He will remember me. If anything perhaps I can negotiate Lincoln’s release.”

Lexa’s eyes narrow. “For what?”

She swallows, knowing they won’t like what’s coming. “They have no _fisa,_ but they need one. If he really did injure one of theirs--”

“No. That is not an option,” Lexa interrupts. But Anya looks intrigued, and Clarke knows she can get her to turn.

“You need Lincoln more than you need me,” she protests. “And you already have Nyko. They have no one. They will not be able to refuse me.” She pleads directly to Anya. “Let me get our warrior out, so if it comes to battle, you will have one more capable fighter in your midst.”

“Commander-” Lexa’s words cut off as Anya holds up a hand.

The girl studies her shrewdly, as if to assess her intentions. Finally she says, “We will be unable to help you from here. You understand the risks.”

“I do.” Trying her luck, she adds, “I can take care of myself. I had good teachers.”

That gets her an approving nod from the Commander. Beside her, Lexa’s nostrils flare as she stares at the ground. It’s only because Clarke knows her so well that she can see her distress. They've been friends for so long, and besides that... she’s always known there was something unspoken between them, but aside from a few stolen kisses they’ve both put it aside as they rose through the ranks. Their people come first, now and always. It's how it is, and they both agreed on that.

“Tomas and Indra will accompany you halfway. From there, you must continue alone.” Anya rounds the table and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Your sacrifice will be remembered. _Ste yuj.”_ Be strong. 

_”Otaim.”_ Clarke hurries to the medical hut, filling in Nyko as she takes a few meager supplies and straps a few extra knives under her clothing. She might be searched, but she’s confident that hiding even one could be helpful later on.

Nyko stops her with a hand on her elbow as she’s about to leave. “Lincoln’s blade was marked. There are antidotes in his pack. He will not reveal their purpose, but…”

She nods in understanding. “Thank you.”

Tomas and Indra are waiting at the edge of the village. Taking one last look around, she finds Lexa’s gaze for a long moment. The brunette finally nods. Clarke grits her teeth and heads out.

~~~~~~~~~

It’s not too hard to find a group of Sky People. They crash through the woods so noisily she wants to wince, except that it makes her task much easier. As promised, Tomas and Indra halt at the bridge, and then she’s left to her own devices as she follows the kids, careful not to get close but always keeping them within sight. Soon, she sees the dark bulk of the dropship gleaming in the sunlight from afar. Her heart begins to pound in her ears. With a reassuring pat to the knives strapped to her forearms, she hastens forward. As one of the boys turns with a laugh, Clarke recognizes his face and knows she has her way in.

She purposely circles to the side, unwinding her blonde hair from its plait and stepping into his line of sight once, twice, before disappearing again. She knows he’s seen her when his pace slows until he’s trailing behind the others. His friends hurry inside the makeshift camp, but he lingers.

“Jasper?” Her voice is as low as possible, but pitched to carry.

He turns, wide-eyed, and she steps more fully into view, her hands up. “It’s you,” he whispers.

She nods. “I need your help.”

Before he can utter another word, a boy and girl run back out, the words freezing on their lips when they see her. Clarke sees her chance slipping away, so she doesn’t hesitate. Moving forward, she grabs Jasper from behind and twists his arm, laying her blade flat against his neck in one smooth motion.

“Easy,” she murmurs. “I won’t hurt you.” His body trembles, but he remains still. Raising her voice, she calls out, “Where is your leader?”

The two watch uncertainly but don’t move. Sighing, she yanks Jasper’s arm a little more forcefully. “I said, _where_ is your leader? I will not ask a third time,” she adds in warning.

After a long, tense moment, it’s Jasper who breaks the silence. “Get Bellamy,” he wheezes out. “Go!”

The boy heads back inside with long, loping strides. The girl remains, her pistol pointed at Clarke. Bellamy comes out less than a minute later, his face darkening like a stormcloud as he assesses the situation. Blood spatters his arms, and Clarke feels a little sick.

“You have one of my men,” she barks, a little more harshly than she wants to.

“He got too close to one of ours,” he replies. When his jaw tightens, she knows exactly who he’s referring to. _Shit, Lincoln. You had to fall for her._ But then Bellamy says, “He stabbed our engineer. Was that a mistake, too?”

"He would only do so in defense." Glancing around, she realizes there’s a multitude of eyes on them. Her next actions will dictate how they see every Grounder from here on out. With a small sigh, she lets go of Jasper, nudging him towards his people. Then she throws her knives on the ground and puts her hands in the air.

The others surge forward, but Bellamy’s hand flies up. _”Stop.”_ Just one word, but they listen. “Why are you here?” He asks curiously.

“I came to offer a trade. Him for me.”

His eyes widen just the slightest. “You’d give yourself up so quickly?”

“He is one of our warriors. I do not know that you need him, since you already have weapons of your own.” Pursing her lips, Clarke takes a chance. “You need a healer, though, don’t you?”

There’s no answer, but when his eyes cut to Jasper all the same, she knows she can convince him. “There are others out here besides my tribe,” she continues. “They tend to act first, speak later. And they have… _other_ means of hurt. I can help you against them. If you let Lincoln go.”

“Why should we trust you?” The dark-skinned boy who spoke remains behind Bellamy, but they way he stands at his shoulder, arms folded, she can tell he’s his second.

“We have enough problems here,” she answers honestly. “I do not think either of our people needs any more.”

She waits, hands still up, for what feels like an eternity. Bellamy is silent for a long time, his eyes piercing deeply into her - too deeply. He makes her feel laid open with just one look. It’s discomforting and exhilarating, and she’s never known those two things to co-exist before.

Just as her shoulders start to ache, he steps forward. “There were medicines in your friend’s pack. I assume they are to treat whatever was on the blade he used to slice open my man’s gut.”

“I can tell you for certain,” she responds.

He nods, and she lowers her arms. A length of rope flies into his outstretched hands, and he binds it over her wrists, crossing one over the other. “For now,” he says lowly. The words are only for her.

Then his fingers graze up her arm, over her sleeve, tracing the metal outlined against her skin. The knives go into his belt, as she expected. It’s why she didn’t bring her father’s dagger this time. Bellamy kneels, checking her legs and relieving her of the few meager things she hid in her boots. His touch makes her shake a little, and she’s maybe too glad that he makes it quick, not liking the strange new feelings he seems to produce.

Then they’re marching inside the the small encampment, the kids closing ranks behind them. Ignoring the gazes, Bellamy takes her straight to the large hulk of metal sitting in the center - the dropship. Inside is a ladder that leads to a second level. She scrambles up, throwing herself to the side when she reaches to the top. A harsh gasp makes her look up, and her breath seizes.

“Lincoln.” His name comes out as a croak. He’s strung up like a doll, each arm bound to a post. Welts cover his skin. He looks drained and exhausted. Something ugly rises in her throat, and the minute Bellamy is beside her she shoves him, hard, hitting him repeatedly with her fists. _”This_ is the thanks we get for saving your friend?”

She’s pulled off quickly, but not before she sees his face twist, a flash of regret in his eyes and then its gone. Looking up, she finds Octavia is the one holding her back. The brunette tightens her grip while asking, “Who’s this?”

He gets to his feet, then pulls Clarke up beside him. “A friend of his,” he says, jerking his head at Lincoln.

“You’ve got me,” Clarke tells him. “Now let him go.”

Bellamy tilts his head. “First, the medicine.” He points at a row of small vials on the ground, and she recognizes the antidotes from her pack. 

“Where is the blade? I need to know what was on it. Can you describe the wound?”

“I can,” Octavia cuts in. “I was watching him for a while.”

The girl does describe it, much more detailed than Clarke expects, and she’s a little impressed by all the observations. She’d make a good healer, if she wanted to, she thinks. It also doesn’t escape her notice that Octavia positions herself between them and Lincoln as she speaks, as if just her presence will keep her brother from getting closer.

And, truth be told, it’s working. Bellamy stays where he is, even if distrust radiates from his every pore. She doesn’t figure out why until later, when Octavia dabs a wet cloth over Lincoln’s arms and face, sweeping away the dried blood with a gentle hand.

 _Oh,_ she thinks, and looks at Bellamy, who’s also watching but pretending not to. There’s sadness in his eyes, and a deeper pain, too.

She forces her gaze away and instead takes stock of her options. Bellamy holds the blade out, enough that she can sniff the green dye staining the tip. She feels Lincoln’s eyes boring into her, willing her not to say a word, but she already knew she’d have to say something to gain their trust. Eventually she points at a vial, and Octavia’s grateful expression shifts between her and Bellamy. Clarke glances at him as well.

But he’s watching Lincoln. “Is she telling the truth?” Lincoln’s expression doesn’t change. “Why won’t you speak?”

“I told you,” Clarke interrupts. “He’s a soldier. He is trained not to reveal our ways to others. And I’ve just told you which one will work. Please cut him down,” she begs. 

Bellamy sets his jaw. “I need to hear it from him." She begins to protest, but he overrides her with anger in his voice. “Look, I want to trust you, alright? But I’m not an idiot. I know you’d do anything to save your friend, just as I would mine. But I can't just give him anything. If this is the right one, like you say, he just needs to agree. And then, I swear to you, I will let him go.”

Neither of them has been watching Octavia. Lincoln’s garbled warning makes them both turn in surprise, their gazes latching onto the red trail dripping down Octavia’s arm. Her other hand grips the knife. Lincoln’s knife.

She brings her face inches from his, pleading. “Now will you tell us if she’s telling the truth? Just say yes or no. Please.”

Clarke can feel Bellamy ready to spring next to her, but she can’t stop staring at Lincoln, how the resistance battles with emotion like never before. Finally, he gives a slow nod, and glances over her shoulder at Clarke.

“Yes,” he whispers.

Octavia turns to Bellamy, pointedly throwing the knife aside. She takes the vial and disappears down the ladder. A heavy silence falls over them, punctuated only by Lincoln’s harsh breaths. Eventually those taper off as well, and Clarke aches to see him in such a state.

“Why are you doing this?” She asks, not looking up. “What happened to you that you can’t trust anyone?”

Bellamy is quiet long enough that she thinks he won’t answer. But then he slumps to the floor and unravels the ropes on her wrists. “The sky isn’t much better than the ground,” is all he says.

~~~~~~~~~

Octavia climbs back up a while later. “He’s breathing better. I took a few drops as well and feel fine,” she confirms. Clarke looks at Bellamy, expectant. A grimace twists his face. Before he can say anything, though, his sister plops down next to him, a little too casual. Clarke watches curiously as she retrieves a handful of nuts from her pocket. Her eyes widen. Jobi nuts.

 _She_ knows what those are… but do they?

Octavia holds out her palm and Bellamy snatches up a few without thinking, tossing them in his mouth. His sister pretends to eat one, instead hiding it in her palm and slipping it back into her pocket when he’s preoccupied.

He stands, then sags against the wall. “Whoa,” Octavia stands up to hold him upright. “You okay, Bell?” Her voice is tinged with concern, and if Clarke hadn’t seen the glimmer in her eyes earlier she’d believe her too. “Maybe you need some fresh air,” Octavia declares. “You’ve been stuck in here far too long. Come on, seriously, I’ll be fine. He’s still tied and she’s… well, fine, tie her again if it makes you feel better.”

Bellamy does, if a little apologetically, but Clarke can already see his pupils dilating and beginning to dart about as the hallucinogen takes effect. Octavia follows him down the ladder and outside, leaving them alone.

“Jobi nuts.”

Lincoln’s voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but her head snaps over anyways. _”Lukot,”_ she whispers. My friend. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I have seen worse,” he replies. “That was no accident, what she did.”

“No, it wasn’t. You think she’ll help us?”

He doesn’t have time to answer, because Octavia’s clambering up next to them once more. Without hesitating, she unties Lincoln’s arms from each pillar, catching him when he stumbles, trying to regain his footing. The way she holds him, so delicate and careful despite his towering frame, makes Clarke like her more. Then she tosses a sweater at him.

“Put that on,” she orders. In the meantime, she hauls Clarke to her feet and unties her bindings. “Here,” Octavia shoves a shirt and trousers into her hands. “Change into these. Hurry.” At her blank look, she sighs. “Everyone’s eaten those nuts, they won’t remember a thing. And if they do they’ll think it was a dream. But you being in Grounder clothing is a bit too noticeable. Just throw on those for now.”

A little bewildered, Clarke hurries to do so, recognizing the logic behind her words. The clothes are strange, but not particularly uncomfortable. Just different. When she turns back after pulling on the long-sleeved blue shirt over the brown pants, she finds Lincoln kissing Octavia.

Her jaw drops, even though she can’t honestly say she’s that surprised. She knows by now he’s been wanting to. It’s just the sheer act of it that takes her aback for a moment, makes her throat close up. His hands cradle her face just as gently as she held him earlier.

Octavia is stunned when they pull apart, but recovers quickly.

“Both of you go, now,” she pleads. “Quick.”

They hurry down the ladder, but before Clarke can follow Lincoln out the door, Octavia pushes a blue cap in her hands. “Hide your hair under that,” the girl instructs. She loops her hair up into its usual twist and settles the cap over it, and after Octavia’s nod of approval, she surprises them both by giving her a brief hug. In any other life, she thinks the girl would have made a great Grounder.

Then she runs.

Lincoln’s waiting in the trees, and together they crash through the forest, trying to get as far as they can from the camp. Their breaths come ragged; her lungs burn. Her feet ache and her heart pounds, and she’s half carrying Lincoln at points, only slowing when he simply can’t go another step.

_”Clarke!”_

They both whirl around at Bellamy’s shout. How--? She begins to nudge Lincoln further away. _”Ron of!”_ she hisses. “Go! I’ll distract him and circle back.”

“If he catches you, you’ll have to stay there.”

“That was the agreement anyways,” she reminds him, though she’s not sure why. “The mission was to get you out. If I don’t go back, they might come to our village, and then what?”

“Clarke-”

“Our people can’t fight guns.”

Lincoln rubs his face, suddenly looking older than she’s ever seen him. “You shouldn’t have come at all,” he murmurs, and it’s so full of sadness she just stops and stares.

“Of course I came,” she says quietly. ”You’re my people.”

“Except I’m not,” he whispers. A chill runs through her blood. _What?_ Before she can ask, heavy footsteps distract them both.

 _”Go!”_ Not waiting to see if he does, Clarke takes off in the opposite direction, purposely making extra noise. When she hears the footsteps follow her, she smiles grimly. She’s only intending to lead Bellamy in a circle before ditching him entirely, but when she finally manages to turn the tables and creep up behind him, she sees something that makes her stomach drop.

There’s somebody else in her line of sight, their back to her. Someone has been following him - someone she doesn’t recognize from camp. Someone who’s holding a long rifle, aimed directly at his heart.

_No. Nononono--_

She moves without a sound this time as she hurries up behind the stranger, fumbling for the blade deep at her waist. Except there isn’t one - because she was searched. Still, there’s no thought in her mind except to stop him when she jams her leg into the back of his knee, winding her fingers around his throat anyways.

But he’s stronger than her, taller and wider, and has brute force on his side. Her hat is long gone, so when he reaches back, it’s to grab a fistful of her hair. The shout of pain gets stuck in her throat as he propels her over his body. She has only a second to catch Bellamy’s eyes, wide and horrified, before she lands hard on her back with a groan. Her legs immediately shoot up and out to catch him in the chest, giving her a moment’s respite. Then Bellamy’s launching himself at the man’s side and they grapple on the ground, the gun out of reach.

If she stretched out her arm, she could grab it. But she can’t-- she can’t even touch it. The legend has been with her - with everyone - since she was young. The first Grounder to pick up a gun will cause Maun-de to wipe out their entire people. No one has ever tested that, with reason. She can’t bring herself to do it. 

Then there’s the sickening crack of flesh, and Bellamy yells. Lurching to her feet, Clarke jumps on the stranger’s back as he raises the rifle, clawing at him. She’s not even in control of herself anymore - just knows she has to stop him. His elbow catches her ribs, and as soon as her grip loosens she’s flung against the base of a tree. Her bones scream in response, and she forces her eyes open to find Bellamy. His glare is fierce and pure anger, and when the stranger’s body covers his own she sees the flash of steel in Bellamy’s hand before it slices through his neck.

The man slumps instantly, dead weight. Breathing harshly, Bellamy shoves him off and crawls towards her, his hand touching her knee gently as soon as he’s close.

“You’re okay,” she breathes, her fingers closing over his. But he shakes his head with a small sob, and she’s mesmerized by the tears that glisten in his eyes. He sniffs, then rests back against the trunk next to her.

“I’m not okay. I can’t- I can’t stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Death. It follows me everywhere. I killed him, just like I was prepared to kill Lincoln if he didn’t--” He draws a hand over his face. “My mom… others… they died because of my carelessness. I’m a monster,” he whispers. “All I do is hurt people.”

Clarke clutches his hand more tightly, and though every muscle in her body protests, moves closer until she’s flush against his side. “Bellamy, you saved my life today. You had no reason to, but you did. That does not sound like a monster to me.”

"I think it's more like you saved me." He draws a sleeve over his eyes, taking a ragged breath. “My mom raised me to be better than this. To be good. If she could see this…”

Slowly, she reaches out to curl her fingers into his jacket. “I have seen monsters, Bellamy,” she says softly. “You are not one of them.”

He doesn’t reply, but grips her hand a little harder all the same, lowering his head until his lips brush the tops of her knuckles where they grasp his jacket. They sit there silently for some time.

“Did you know that man?” She finally asks.

“Yeah.” Bellamy pauses, then meets her eyes. He’s too haunted for someone so young. “He was sent to kill me. To make sure I didn’t talk.”

“About what?”

He purses his lips, considering. “It’s… it’s sort of a long story. You know I have a sister. Well, on The Ark - that was where we lived, in the sky,” he explains, “that was considered a crime. Population control. Only one child per family. Except, my mom had Octavia, too. I kept her hidden for sixteen years, until…” The breath leaves him in a rush. “Until I fucked it up. She got locked up for being born. When I found out they were sending the kids to Earth, I made a deal to get on the ship. I…” His eyes close, bracing himself. “I had to kill someone.”

Now she understands why he’s so hard on himself; why he holds himself to impossible standards. His sister is all he has. Who's been looking out for him, though?

“And you did it,” she replies. It’s not a question, but his bark of laughter startles her.

“I thought I did. Apparently I’m not such a good shot. Or our healer is about as good as you are. He lived.”

“Then… that is better, isn’t it? You are not a killer.”

“Except now when the rest of my people come down, I’ll be sentenced to die anyways.” He sighs. “He’s the Chancellor. Our version of a Commander, I suppose.”

She sucks in a breath. Oh. _Oh._ That certainly makes things more complicated. “Maybe if they see what you’ve done-”

“What? A poorly built encampment and several kids already dead?”

“No.” She shakes him lightly, trying to make him see. “If my people and yours can come to some agreement, can find a way to live together… I think your people would do well. You would have much to show your worth.”

“Maybe. I don’t even know what the point is in going back. Nobody needs me.”

“That’s nonsense. How do you not see it?” She cups his cheek until he looks at her. She can see it on his face, just how exhausted he is. “Those kids back there, I have seen how they look at you. You are their leader, Bellamy. They are ready to fight and die for you. That is not something everyone can say.”

When he tries to shake her off, she tightens her hold. “Listen, you might not believe me, but I need you, alright?” There’s wonder in his gaze now, and she trips over her words. “My people will not hesitate to attack if they think something is amiss, and yours will defend each other until their last breath. Our numbers far surpass yours. And I fear both sides will lose too many before this is over. But we can change that.”

“How?”

“I will return with you. As your… captive,” she grimaces at the word, and she swears his mouth lifts at the corners. “I can help you with medicines, teach you about the forest. And in return you don’t use your weapons on my people.”

Bellamy stares at her long enough that she begins to get worried, but when he speaks, all he says is, “You won’t be my captive,” and her heart drums a little more wildly when his thumb strokes over her wrist.

~~~~~~~~~

When they return to camp, the jobi nuts have long worn off. The others eye her with open distrust and suspicion, but Bellamy strides along right next to her, glaring at each and every one who dares to get too close. His sister’s face falls as soon as she sees them, but when her eyes wander to the forest, she can’t quite hide her relief, either.

Maybe they have a chance after all, Clarke thinks.

Bellamy holds aside the curtain so she can step inside the dropship. When he motions to climb the ladder, she pauses. “I’ll be right behind you,” he promises. “At the moment I think this is the safest place for you to be.”

She finds that it’s not hard to trust him, so she pulls herself up to the second level, settling on the floor as he clambers up next to her and closes the hatch with a definitive thud. “Your people don’t trust me,” she murmurs. Before he can open his mouth, she smiles. “That’s good. They should not be so kind on the ground.”

“Like you?” He asks, and she looks up in surprise to see his smile, teasing but honest.

“Lexa always says that too,” she says.

“Lexa?”

“She’s one of our leaders. Our second. Anya is Commander.”

“And what about you? Where do you fall in the ranks?” Bellamy seems genuinely curious, so when she shrugs, his eyes widen a little. “You’re not one of their leaders?”

“I already told you, I’m a healer,” she says.

He keeps looking at her in that strange way of his that makes her feel uncomfortably like he can see her deepest thoughts. But all he says is, “Could’ve fooled me.”

She tries not to focus on the small bubble of warmth in her chest that’s sprung up after his words. Instead, she looks around the interior of the ship for the first time, noting the careful craftsmanship and the technical details far beyond her knowledge. Something nags at the corner of her mind, oddly familiar, but she can’t pinpoint it.

“This is incredible. Who built this?” She asks.

This time, Bellamy’s smile is a bit more confident; his shoulders straighten. “We did. Although, this isn’t really much. If you think this is impressive, you’d be swooning to see The Ark.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose and tastes the unfamiliar word in her mouth. “What’s swooning?”

He tilts his head. “Fainting. You know, when girls see blood and collapse.”

“Why would they do that?”

Chuckling softly, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

It’s still bothering her a half an hour later. “Do you like girls who swoon, Bellamy?” It’s an idiotic question, and given her current situation she should be more concerned about other things, but it flies out of her mouth anyways.

Bellamy turns amused eyes on her, and she thinks maybe he pierces right through her casual armor.

“Not anymore,” he says.

Just two words, but they steal her breath without warning anyhow. A faint grin curls his mouth. Her pulse is unsteady, galloping. She needs to distract herself. Drawing her knees to her chest, she fixes him with a quizzical look.

“Is this where I’m to stay, then?”

The smile lingers, like he knows exactly what she’s about, but he nods. “For now. Maybe tomorrow you can see Wick. The boy who was hurt,” he elaborates. Then he stands suddenly. “You must be hungry. I’ll go get you some food.”

Without waiting for a reply, he opens the hatch and slides out of sight, only to have another familiar boy come up in his place. Bellamy’s head pops up for a moment. “This is Miller. Miller, this is Clarke.” His eyes tell her what he won’t say out loud. _I trust him._ She gives him the briefest tilt of the head, then nods at Miller. He takes up his post quietly, but his eyes are cautious nonetheless. They’re silent for most of the time, though Clarke can’t help but ask one question.

“Is Wick doing better?” Miller’s gaze snaps to hers, hesitant. She tries again. “Bellamy told me his name. I just want to know if the antidote helped.”

After a minute, his posture eases. “It helped,” he says lowly, and she smiles.

Bellamy isn’t gone for long - when he returns, there’s food in his hand and a blanket tossed over his shoulder. To her surprise, he drapes it over her before setting the food down on the floor. He and Miller hold a quiet conversation on the first level, and then he climbs back up, closing the door once more.

He nudges the food closer. “Go ahead. It’s all yours.” She looks at the rabbit meat then back at him. “I already ate,” he says.

It’s a lie, and they both know it. Rolling her eyes, she shifts closer and holds out a piece to him, an eyebrow lifted and expectant. Bellamy doesn’t move at first, and she thinks he’ll just push it away.

“It is an insult to make one eat alone,” she says sternly. Another lie. But it works. He accepts the meat with a meek grin. Pleased, she digs into her own helping, her empty stomach welcoming every morsel.

With her body relatively full again, she folds the blanket more securely around her shoulders, leaning back against the wall. It should bother her that she relaxes so easily in the presence of someone who is not part of her clan, but it doesn’t. Then Lincoln’s face flashes in her mind. What had he said, before they parted? She’s asleep before the thought can fully take form.

~~~~~~~~

The sound of the hatch opening is what rouses her. Bellamy starts as well, his head jerking up from his chest. “O,” he says in surprise.

“I’m relieving you. It’s your turn to take watch. Monroe looked dead on her feet.” When his gaze slides between her and Clarke, his sister rolls her eyes. “Come on, Bell. I’m not going to do anything. Would you rather I bring Murphy over?”

He shakes his head a little too fast. “Be back soon,” he says gruffly, and disappears down the ladder.

Clarke stretches her legs, her muscles slowly unlocking from the cramped position she fell asleep in.

“So you came back.” Octavia’s quiet statement makes her look up. “Why?”

“I’m honoring our deal. It was me for Lincoln. I didn’t want either side to feel slighted and do something stupid. But…” Clarke pauses, then adds in a whisper, “thank you. What you did was brave.”

“I should have done it sooner.” Octavia’s voice cracks the slightest. There’s longing in her eyes when she looks up. “Did he… do you know if he made it back?”

“We got separated, but I’m sure he did. I’d… I’d know it in my bones if he hadn’t.” She means it. Lincoln has been beside her her whole life. If anything happens, she knows.

Octavia accepts it without question. “So what now? You plan to just stay here until… what?”

“You don’t have a healer, right?” When the brunette shakes her head, she says, “Perhaps I can be of help. And in return you can teach me more about yourselves. I’m not- I don’t want…” She rubs her neck, searching for the words. “Some people are too eager for war. I think there are other ways.”

“It’ll be hard to get the others to trust you.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.” After a beat, she asks, “Who is Murphy?”

Octavia’s face clouds over. “He’s… he’s trouble. Some weird shit happened the first couple days. Not all his doing, but… enough. We banished him, thought he was dead, honestly. Then he returned yesterday.” Her eyes fill with pain. “He was tortured.”

“Not by us?” Clarke asks, sick at the thought. Octavia shakes her head.

“Don’t know. But someone did that. And now… we’re not sure what to do. I’m still afraid he’s got it in for Bellamy. I keep telling him to be careful, but, well, you know how he is.” It makes Clarke blush a little to think that his sister can plainly see how well she’s come to know him in such a short span of time. But she does not seem to mind, either.

That’s when they hear hasty footsteps ring out on the first level, and soon a girl with hair color of the sunset is popping up from the ladder. But it’s her panicked eyes that have them both rising in concern.

“Fox is sick. So is Travis.”

“What? Did they catch a cold, or--”

“Sick with what?” Clarke interrupts, her mind already jumping to one possibility.

The girl looks to Octavia, who nods, then back to her. “I don’t know. They’re shaking, running a high fever. Bellamy asked you to come.”

“Show me,” she says, and follows her down the ladder and out to one of the tents, where two girls and a boy lie on cots, their bodies trembling and flushed. A streak of red runs from the boy’s nostrils, and Clarke feels the hair on the back of her neck rise as her blood runs cold.

“Clarke.”

It’s Bellamy, his concerned eyes already aware that she’s come to a realization. She looks around and finds Octavia. “Gather up your extra cloth and soak it in the river. Lay it on their neck and foreheads. Do you have any _lyka?_ ” When she receives blank looks in reply, she curses softly and puts a hand to her forehead, thinking. “Smooth edges, light green like moss, but leafy, grows in stalks…”

“Yes!” Octavia nods furiously. “A little. But I know where we can get more.”

“Do it. Mix that with some water and apply it under the cloth.”

She takes Bellamy by the elbow while Octavia sends the others out. He lowers his face so she can whisper. “This is no accident,” she says urgently, and his eyes widen. “Your sister says one of your own was returned to you? After being held?”

He nods, wary. “Not an accident,” he repeats, and now there’s fire in his voice. Whipping around, he barks, “Find Murphy! _Now.”_

Two boys take off without a word. She grasps his hand, waiting until his eyes find hers. “Go after them. I’ll take care of your people. I promise.” Looking over his shoulder, she says more loudly, “Your sister will help me. Right?”

“Damn right. Go, Bell.”

After glancing between them both, he nods in thanks and heads out, long legs carrying him away. Clarke watches him for a moment longer before turning back to Octavia. “Alright. Here’s what we need to do.”

~~~~~~~~~

It’s long day, and an even longer night. More kids fall ill as the sun sets, and soon the tent is filled with bodies, their quiet groans reaching her ears from every direction. Exhaustion seeps into her bones as she moves from cot to cot, checking on each one and giving instructions to Octavia or Harper, the other blonde who’s joined them.

The others had eyed her warily at first, until Octavia lost her patience with the third kid and snapped at them to let her help unless they wanted to die. A little harsh, but it worked. Now, she’s trying to keep track of how far each one has progressed, her mind working furiously to put together a timetable of symptoms.

She doesn’t quite realize how hard her own head is pounding until she stops at the front of the tent, where Bellamy has stepped inside. His gaze wanders over the kids, uncertain and frightened and just plain tired, and she’s putting her hand on his arm before she can second guess herself.

“It needs to leave their system, that’s all. It’s a matter of getting through it. Your sister has been a big help.”

A soft smile curls his mouth at that, but it quickly turns to concern when he gets a good look at her. “Clarke, are you alright?”

She nods, or tries to, but sways instead. He’s already moving closer, lifting her into his arms with ease as he calls for Octavia. She tries to tell him it’s okay, but her mouth is too dry, her throat is thick, her tongue feels like lead. All she wants is to burrow closer into the warmth of his body. So she does.

The last thing she feels is the faintest brush of lips against her forehead, and then there’s only darkness.

She drifts in and out of consciousness for an unknown period of time. Sometimes it’s Octavia’s face hovering over her, sometimes Harper. The only constant is the black leather of Bellamy’s jacket, cool against her cheek, his arm draped over her shoulders.

When she finally opens her eyes to a world that isn’t spinning, she breathes a small sigh of relief. That is, until she realizes she’s alone on the cot. The thought makes her scramble to sit up. Bellamy is only two cots away, but his body shudders in the throes of sickness, sweat gleaming on his temple, and she’s on her feet before she knows it. Octavia is huddled beside him, half-asleep on a stool, a cold rag limply fisted in her right hand.

Gently, Clarke eases it from under her fingers and settles on Bellamy’s other side, wiping his face and resoaking the cloth in the bucket of water before laying it against his neck. He still shakes, so she takes his hand in hers, soothing her other hand over his forehead as she begins to hum softly. She can’t be sure if she’s imagining it, but his strained expression seems to ease, and she’ll take what little hope she can get at the moment, so she continues, the notes of the lullaby drifting through the stillness of the tent.

She’s unaware of the eyes that have opened to watch until she turns to re-wet the cloth, and then she finds nearly half the tent staring back at her, alternately astonished and grateful. Swallowing, she looks away, only to find Octavia wide awake and smiling.

Clarke searches for words, only managing a small “Thank you.” But the other girl seems to understand, reaching out to briefly touch her elbow as she stands. Clarke remains with Bellamy the rest of the night, alternately singing and sometimes just murmuring in _Trigedasleng,_ things she's not quite ready for him to hear. His shaking subsides, slowly but surely, and once she feels his hand grip hers just as tight, and she curls over and presses her lips to his knuckles.

Finally she steps away to let Octavia take over again, while the redhead - Monroe, she’s learned - takes her to another tent, where a man with hair that matches her own is stretched out on his back. The girl sitting beside him looks half-asleep, but as soon as they enter she springs up, dark ponytail swishing behind her.

“Is this her?” She asks immediately. Monroe nods. The girl comes to stand in front of Clarke, eyes appraising her long and hard, before she surprises her by taking her hand. “You’re the one who gave us the antidote.”

“I am.”

That seems to be all she needs. With a nod, she pulls Clarke down by her side. “I’m Raven. This idiot is Wick.”

He coughs and begins to sit, affronted. “Hey, I’m recovering. Take it easy.”

“Shut up,” she answers, but even Clarke can hear the dip in her voice on the second word. Leaning closer, she sees the wraps on his side. She reaches out, then pauses with her hand hovering, and looks between them. He tilts his head at Raven, who says, “Go ahead.”

Clarke inspects the wound, noting the retreat of angry, stretched skin as the antidote gets to work. She sits back on her heels. “It’s improving well. You should eat, to keep your strength. Change the bindings twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, to prevent infection. You can use a few different herbs to make a paste for the pain. I can show you. Not too hard.”

“Thanks… uh, what’s your name again?” Wick asks.

She smiles. “Clarke.”

“Well, thank you, Clarke. I was kinda getting worried for a while until you showed up.”

Raven rolls her eyes, but offers a small smile that fades when she sees the look on Clarke's face. "What is it?"

"I..." Clarke hesitates, wanting to phrase it right. "How did this happen?"

Wick nods, understanding. "I saw him following me and Raven. I didn't know a thing about him, but I didn't want to lead him back to camp. So I thought maybe I could turn the tables, follow him instead. Tried to sneak up on him, and... well, obviously it didn't turn out well."

Clarke tries and fails to hide her smile. "You are right," she agrees, "it was stupid." Raven laughs loudly, and he has the grace to look a bit meek. " _Trikru_ does not take lightly to being followed. You were a threat."

Raven pokes his arm. "Don't let that go to your head. So, how are the others doing?”

“Recovering, I think. Slowly but surely. It is not easy. But you Sky People are tougher than you look.”

“Don’t you forget it.” Raven winks, and she grins.

When she ducks back inside the large tent, she has just a moment to register that Bellamy’s cot is empty before her heart all but leaps out of her chest at the sight of him sitting on the ground, clutching a cup of water. Then his eyes find hers, and he smiles, worn out but very much alive. She doesn’t remember walking over, only knowing that she needs to confirm for herself he’s okay. Her hand brushes his back as she sinks down beside him.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, and she nearly laughs because he _would_ take the words from her mouth.

“Yes,” she says. “And so are you.”

His hand covers hers where it lays on the soil, and she’s content to sit by his side for the rest of the afternoon.

~~~~~~~~~

That night, the sky lights up in a blaze of fire that has everyone’s heads turned upward. Clarke looks around at the horrified, tear-stained faces around her, then at Bellamy’s hard gaze.

“What is it?” She asks.

His answer, when it comes, is thick with emotion.

“That was The Ark.”

~~~~~~~~~

The next couple of days are quiet as the kids continue their daily routines. More than once, Clarke sees them huddle together for comfort as they come to terms with what they saw in the sky. There was no doubt the ship had split apart while in the air - what they still don’t know is where the pieces had landed, and if anyone lives to tell the tale.

So she watches them continue to build a wall around their camp, focusing on defenses and foraging. Bellamy is more silent than usual as well, though he still sticks to her side like a shadow. And when he can’t, his sister takes his place. Clarke doesn’t mind as much as she once did.

But it’s in the afternoon, when she’s disappeared into the second level of the dropship to retrieve the rest of the vials of medicine, that all hell breaks loose.

The shouts register first. A few sparse yells that soon become an undignified roar, spreading through the camp like wildfire. And when she pokes her head over the ladder, she sees why. Murphy stands on the first level, a knife at Jasper’s throat and a rifle in his other hand. She pulls back quickly; the last thing she needs is for him to realize he’s not alone.

The gun is pointed outwards, and she knows no one will dare come inside the ship while the blade still threatens Jasper.

Until a clear voice rings through the crowd, and her heart sinks.

 _”Murphy!”_ Bellamy’s voice is rife with anger. “Let him go. Your fight is with me.”

“Oh so _now_ the king shows up,” Murphy sneers back. Clarke peeks over the edge again, her heart beating wildly in her throat.

“This is between you and me,” Bellamy repeats, slow and steady. “Here, look. I’m putting down my gun.” Black metal comes skidding into view. His jacket follows. “See? No weapons.”

The other boy pauses, and she can tell he’s considering it. Bellamy’s voice continues, and she hears footsteps directly outside. “I’m coming in, alright? Just me. No one else.” And then Bellamy’s inside, hands raised, expression blank, though his eyes rage.

Murphy smirks, tossing Jasper to the floor like a rag doll. Bellamy’s eyes follow him as he stands, shaky.

“Go,” he says. Jasper runs.

Murphy closes the door to the dropship, cranking it shut creak by creak, his rifle pointed at Bellamy all the while. Bellamy does nothing, just stands there, waiting. He thinks he deserves this, Clarke realizes with a start. He’s not going to stop him.

That’s what makes the fear coil in her stomach, makes her scramble for any sort of weapon. Her eyes land on the knife across the floor. Lincoln’s. Clarke doesn’t hesitate to pick it up.

Murphy’s still talking, taunting, while he circles Bellamy, gathering long stretches of belts that make her grip the blade hard. It’s an effort to stay still, knowing she has to wait until he’s completely distracted, until that gun is far enough away for her to have a shot. Like Murphy, Bellamy isn’t aware of her presence. She wishes he would look up even once, just so he’d know he has help, but it would likely tip off Murphy too, and that’s simply not an option. So she waits, watches Bellamy stand on a chair, wrists bound, as Murphy strings the belts up and around his neck with something akin to eagerness. This is revenge, plain and simple.

Her lungs nearly stop working when he gets ready to pull the chair out from under Bellamy’s legs. The motion will leave him hanging - literally. She can’t bear one more second of it, palms the blade and aims, even though her brain screams that they’re _too close,_ too close together--

The bang from the doorway startles all of them; three faces swivel towards it. Murphy moves away from Bellamy, rifle up and aimed at the door. That’s all the distraction she needs.

Her blade hurtles through the air, sinking into Murphy’s thigh even as she jumps to the floor. Bellamy’s shout catches in his throat - it might be a sob. She kicks the gun well away from where it clattered out of Murphy’s grip, then knocks him out with a well-placed elbow, just like Lincoln taught her.

Pulse roaring in her ears, she climbs up on the cot beside Bellamy, trying to unknot the seatbelts with hands that shake. A frustrated cry leaves her mouth when the second knot proves slippery, and he turns his head as best he can. His eyes drop to her feet, then back up. She looks down and sees a rounded hilt protruding from his boot.

She retrieves it with a grateful sigh and saws through the remainder of the belts rather ungracefully. He teeters on the chair, unable to balance with his hands still bound. Her arm slides around his waist, bracing him as she cuts the restraints, and then her hands reach up to tug the remainder of the belts from his neck on a gasp. Bellamy steps down, still staring at Murphy’s prone form. She’s in the midst of checking the red bands of skin along his neck when his legs give way.

They sink to the ground together, and suddenly she’s holding him like her life depends on it.

“I’m okay,” he says hoarsely. His hand sweeps down her back and she hates he’s trying to reassure her when it should be the opposite. All she can seem to form are odd noises, though, so she just tucks her head into the crook of his neck and holds him tighter.

Finally Bellamy draws back, and his hand cups her jaw in slight disbelief. “I’m okay,” he says again, as if they both need to hear it. “Thanks to you.”

Clarke still doesn’t have any words. So she leans forward and fits her mouth to his instead, a little desperate. He’s frozen, almost a statue under her touch, but she still lingers longer than she should.

When she opens her eyes, Bellamy is gaping, completely stunned. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Just as she’s decided to pull away, he surges up and captures her lips, his hand flying to the back of her head. She gasps a little, clutching his shoulders. His mouth opens over hers, gentle pressure that makes her want to melt into him, and then she’s kissing him back.

His lips are intoxicating. She thinks she could kiss him for hours, days, and never get enough. Fire races through her veins when his tongue sweeps at the seam of her lips, and when he licks inside her mouth like a dying man she thinks she might combust on the spot.

The _bang_ at the door makes her wrench her mouth away, staring down at his endless dark eyes, her own reflection flushed and panting and completely unfamiliar. Color rises in his cheeks, those sweet lips bitten red, and she feels the need to make it clear that _she_ did that.

Another loud bang, and then she hastens to stand, yanking him up beside her.

“Bellamy!” The shout echoes from outside, and she realizes they’re trying to beat down the door through sheer force.

They rush over, and he begins to crank on the lever. “I’m alright,” he calls. “Hang on!”

Clarke checks on Murphy - still knocked out cold. “Bellamy,” she says quietly, and his gaze latches onto her like a brand on her skin. “What do you want to do with him?” When his jaw tenses but he has no answer, she adds, “You should decide before that door opens.”

He nods tightly and continues to pull. She remains crouching by the boy’s side, irritated with his idiocy. She decides against removing the knife until he’s in a more stable location, where she can properly wrap his leg.

Octavia’s the first one inside, flinging herself at Bellamy. He embraces her wordlessly, heaving grateful gulps of air over her shoulder. Miller and Jasper are next, and as soon as they catch sight of Murphy their expressions turn murderous. Uncertain, Clarke stays where she is, and looks to Bellamy. There’s pain in his eyes, but also simple exhaustion - yet another impossible choice for him to make. Her mouth opens before she can quite think it through.

“Leave him to the forest.”

Everyone looks at her, but she keeps her gaze on Bellamy. “I’ll bind his leg, mostly because I would like my knife back without making a huge mess. And then you can leave him near the mines.”

He nods stiffly. “You heard her. Get him to a tent. Make sure he stays tied down. I want a guard on him at all times.”

Miller and a few others haul Murphy between them. Octavia takes in the seatbelts, the knocked over chair, the way Bellamy’s hands keep grazing his neck, and her eyes flash. Before she can say a word, though, Bellamy slings an arm around her, smiling slightly.

“I know, I know. You told me so.”

She huffs out something between a cry and a laugh and hugs him again. Monroe picks up the discarded rifle and walks over to Clarke, holding it out.

“You should probably take this,” she begins, but Clarke shrinks away on instinct, the chair scraping loudly when she backs into it.

Bellamy and Octavia separate. Shakily, she tries to explain. “I shouldn’t-- I can’t touch that. Ever. There’s a…” For a moment she wonders if she should even tell them.

“The legend,” Octavia says in understanding. Clarke looks up, surprised. _Lincoln told her._ But when could he… suddenly all of Octavia’s recent foraging trips begin to take on a new purpose. Clarke pushes the thoughts away for later, nodding as the brunette explains it to the others.

“Guess I owe you your blades back then,” Bellamy murmurs. She can’t quite meet his eyes, not with the way he’s looking at her or the fondness in his voice, so she just nods at the spot over his shoulder instead.

Ever perceptive, Octavia tugs Monroe with her, and Clarke can hear her barking out orders much like her brother. It brings a smile to her face even as Bellamy’s boots ring out on the floor. She hugs her knees to her chest, focusing on a tear in the fabric as he settles beside her. Heat radiates from his body like a bonfire, and she wants to curl herself against him, let his warmth engulf her like a blanket.

Then his dusky hand closes over hers, unraveling her fingers where they were clenched into fists, idly tracing the lines on her palm until she’s tingling all over, her senses unbearably heightened from that single light touch.

Bellamy leans down and puts his lips to the pulse at her wrist. She sighs, a rush of breath that becomes his name, and his mouth curves against her skin.

When he finally lifts his head, it’s only to press his forehead against hers. “You keep saving my life.”

“Someone has to.”

~~~~~~~~~

They don’t have long before the shouts begin anew, and this time Clarke hears the unmistakeable whisper of “Grounder” that begins to rumble through the camp.

“Now what?” Bellamy’s head lifts from where it had drooped to her shoulder, the weariness apparent in his every movement. It’s almost a reflex when she leans over and touches her lips to his cheek in comfort. His smile, surprised and buoyant, makes her want to hole up with him somewhere and never leave.

So of course, that’s when Miller appears in the doorway. “There’s a Grounder outside. Just one. The same guy from earlier.”

Clarke’s breath catches. _Lincoln._ They scramble to their feet, hands still joined.

“Where’s Octavia?” Bellamy asks instantly. His friend doesn’t reply, merely points. Clarke is already moving, Bellamy hard on her heels as they reach the makeshift gate.

Harper has a gun pointed at Lincoln while Octavia stands beside her, stiff and undecided. Her head swivels between Lincoln and Bellamy. The indecision on her face is nearly heartbreaking, and it makes Bellamy seem more lost than ever. It’s Lincoln who breaks the stalemate, his solemn words drawing their attention.

“I came only to warn you.” He speaks directly to Clarke, but it’s clear he means for everyone to hear. “The Commander was injured. Shot.”

Clarke recoils, a hand flying to her mouth.

“It wasn’t us.” Bellamy is firm, his eyes pleading with Clarke to trust him. She isn’t sure what to think.

But it’s Lincoln who says, “I know. They were not kids,” he tells her. “Men. In suits.”

 _“Maunon,”_ she breathes. “Is she-- will she--?”

“I don’t know. Nyko is looking after her. But for now, Lexa has taken command.”

His dismay matches her own. “She will attack,” she whispers numbly. He nods. Bellamy’s hand grasps her shoulder, turning her towards him.

“They’re coming _here?_ Now?”

“Likely soon. Lexa will take this as an act of war.” His face drains of blood faster than she thought possible, and he barks at Harper and Miller, sending them back inside with brisk orders. She glances at Lincoln. “Did anyone else see the shooter?”

“Only me, as I was returning to the village. I tried to tell them, but… they don’t believe me. _Heda_ does not think the mountain would send its people out now, after staying within for so long. And… Skaikru’s use of guns has become widespread.”

Clarke presses her hands to her temple, trying to think. “She’ll have to gather the clans. It will take time. Maybe we can use that to talk to her--”

“You know her. She’s set on this.”

“We have to do _something!”_ She bursts out. “Our people will die for nothing!”

Lincoln only looks at her sadly, the way he did the last time they parted, and it makes her want to stop whatever he’s going to say next. Unconsciously, she takes a step backwards and bumps into Bellamy. His hands grasp her waist, steadying, and also reassuring. She swallows thickly.

Her oldest friend meets her eyes. “I should have told you this long ago, but I did not know how. I never thought it could come to this.” Lincoln pauses, then inches forward. “You know the story, how when I was young I discovered a pod landed in the forest.”

“Your father made you kill the man inside.” She’s whispering.

He nods. His hands tremble before he clenches them into fists, and she can’t help but stare. She’s never known him to shake at anything before.

“A year after my father died, I found another pod. Farther from here. The man inside was already dead. But he--” Lincoln looks at the ground, then, and she can’t breathe.

“He what?” She presses, invading his space. Suddenly she’s desperate to know.

“He had a child.”

Clarke spins around as Lincoln’s head snaps up. They both stare at Bellamy in astonishment. Even he appears stunned, though his words continue. “I’d heard the stories. We all did. About the man who tried to escape to the ground using one of our landing pods. Nobody seemed to know if he actually had a child with him or not. It was just that… just a story.”

Her brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea. It’s insane. _She_ is from the sky? She doesn’t even remember…

“That’s how you knew the song,” Bellamy murmurs, almost to himself.

“What?”

“The song. The melody you hummed to Atom when he was dying. The one you sang to me just a few nights ago.” He smiles briefly, sad but true. “It’s a tune we sing to kids on the Ark. I would know. I sang it to O all the time when she was little.”

Clarke’s throat clogs up as she tries to process the new information. Lincoln’s soft voice makes her turn back around.

“I swear to you, your father wasn’t alive. I tried, I really did. I even brought Nyko--” He shakes his head. “But I couldn’t leave you there. We brought you back under the guise of a child whose family was killed while traveling. No one ever suspected.”

From his belt, he produces her father’s knife, holding it flat in his palms. Offering. “This was his. Truly. I wanted you to always have something of him.”

Clarke stands motionless, her gaze wavering between him and the blade. “Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because you’re acting out of loyalty to who you think your people are. Your people are the ones you choose, Clarke.” His throat bobs. “I understand if you would not include me among them any longer.”

Her eyes begin to burn with the tears she’s holding at bay, unwilling to let them fall. Lincoln stands before her, eyes downcast, as if awaiting his sentence. She can’t stand it. Her hand wraps around the hilt of the blade. Behind her, she hears a struggle, but doesn’t turn. Still Lincoln does not move.

She raises the knife in her hand, feeling its familiar weight, remembers the way he showed her how to use it, let her practice with him long into the night. How to plant her feet, narrow in on the target, crook her elbow just so. How to stop and breathe, feel the blade become one with her. How instead of teasing her when she missed the mark, he would patiently retrieve the knife and have her start again until her aim was true. Whatever is true of the past, one thing has always been a constant.

The blade flies over Lincoln’s shoulder, embedding itself into the heart of the man lurking among the trees.

Octavia’s quiet sob registers only vaguely in her mind. She’s too busy grabbing Lincoln’s chin and forcing his eyes back to her.

 _”You_ are my people. Don’t you ever forget it.”

Wide-eyed, he can only gape for a long moment. Clarke shoves his shoulder for good measure. Finally he grasps her wrist in gratitude, his mouth flickering in a faint smile. Then Bellamy calls her name. She hurries over to where he’s kneeling by the stranger’s side. Lincoln and Octavia follow her.

“Is this one of your Mountain Men?”

She nods, retrieving her blade and cleaning it on the grass. “The first I’ve seen without a suit on, though.” She’s not really sure what that means for their prospects. Not that she has much time to dwell on it.

“Bellamy!” Raven’s shout echoes as she strides outside. “Is it true what they’re saying? We’ve got a ton of pissed off Grounders headed our way?”

“Pretty much.”

“Wick can’t move yet. He’s barely able to stand, let alone walk,” Raven protests. “Isn’t there any way to delay them?” Raven’s gaze swings to Clarke, expectant.

Uncertain, she trades a glance with Lincoln. There’s only a couple options that come to her mind; and none of them without casualties of some sort. She simply can’t. Even knowing what she knows… she can’t.

“The Mountain Men are still in the forest,” Lincoln finally says. “We could draw the Reapers out, let them take care of that for us. They’ll cause enough of a ruckus that Lexa will be forced to pause so that none of our people are caught in the middle."

“What the hell are Reapers?”

Clarke swallows. “Simple answer? Cannibals.”

They take in the news stiffly. Just another welcome from the ground at this point. 

“And what about afterwards?” Bellamy asks. “Whoever’s still standing when that’s over, who’s to say they won’t come for us next?”

It’s a good point. Reapes are unpredictable. There’s no saying what they will do in bloodlust. And the Mountain Men… they are calculating. She can’t decide which is worse.

“Where did you last see the Mountain Men?” Raven asks Lincoln.

“Near our camp. When they shot our commander.”

“So across the bridge,” she presses excitedly. He nods slowly, confused. She smirks. “You keep them and the Reapers on the other side of that bridge, and I’ll make it go boom. That should buy us enough time to get ready.”

Lincoln shakes his head. “That bridge has survived a nuclear war and 97 years of weather.”

Raven only smiles, feral. “It won’t survive me.”

Clarke trades a look with Bellamy. She’s apprehensive, but something about Raven suggests it’s not overconfidence. “That could work,” she begins haltingly. “But how will you get the bomb to the bridge? And who will draw out the Reapers?”

“I’ll take it,” Octavia says instantly. Both Lincoln and Bellamy stiffen in unison, mouths already opening to protest. “Shut up,” Octavia orders. “I’m done letting everyone else fight for me. You either take me with you or watch me go alone behind your back. Your know I will.”

Lincoln looks almost proud, but the ache in Bellamy’s eyes makes Clarke want to reach out to him. Octavia sees it too, and grasps his hand.

“You can’t protect me forever, big brother,” she says gently.

He offers a small, sad smile. “I can try.” He kisses her forehead, then gathers himself. “But you’re right. We need all the help we can get. I’ll send a few others with you. Lincoln and I will draw the Reapers out, meet you at--”

“No!” Clarke steps forward, eyes wide. “I will go with Lincoln. Your people need you here.”

“No way,” he says sternly, stubbornly. “I can’t just sit back and wait.”

“You won’t be,” she insists. “You’ll be helping them prepare to fight, if it comes to it.”

“And who knows the Grounders better than you?” Bellamy places a hand on her shoulder. “Clarke, if they get here before we return, if they somehow reach the camp… who do you think is more likely to make them stop? Me or you?”

She sees the logic behind his words. It is good strategy, after all. But it doesn’t mean she has to like it. Her gaze falls to the ground, studying the mud on her boots so that he won’t see just how nervous this whole thing makes her. How nervous she is for him.

But his hand slides up to cradle her cheek and then he’s close enough that she can feel his warmth, close enough that if she just tipped forward a little her cheek would lie on his chest, hear his heartbeat below her ear. She closes her eyes and lets herself do just that, and his arms come up without hesitation, enfolding her in an embrace. They stand there for as long as they dare, holding each other tight.

It’s Clarke who draws back first, noting how the others have quietly left them alone. She clears her throat a few times and hopes her voice won’t give out.

“You really trust me with your people?” It sounds more serious than she intended.

Bellamy lightly caresses her cheek, smiling when she leans into his touch. “We choose our people,” he answers.

She nods, trying to smile back. When she searches for more words and finds none, her eyes drop again-- and land on the hilt tucked at her waist. Suddenly she knows what to do. Drawing the blade out slowly, she holds it flat in her palms, offering. Bellamy sucks in a harsh breath and nearly takes a step back.

“No. I-I can’t accept this, Clarke.”

“Yes, you can. If you won’t take me with you, then you had better take this before I knock you out with it,” she threatens.

“As if you could,” he sniffs, or tries to, but he’s still too surprised to pull it off. Tentatively, he touches her wrist, still avoiding the knife. “I know what this means to you.”

“Good.” Without waiting for an answer, Clarke takes his hand and wraps his fingers around the hilt. “So you’d better bring it back safely then.”

Bellamy catches her hand before she can pull back, bringing it to his mouth for a moment. It’s not a kiss - simply the weight of his lips over her skin.

“I will,” he murmurs, and it’s a promise.

~~~~~~~~~

Clarke doesn’t know the details of bomb-making. All she knows is that Raven seems to be everywhere at once, calling out brisk orders and almost reveling in the chaos of it all as others run around trying to get the things she need. When the other girl looks up once to see Clarke watching, she shrugs.

“It’s what I know,” she says. Clarke nods in understanding. Familiarity is hard to come by on the ground.

Bellamy and Lincoln have already taken off, and Octavia will soon follow. Jasper bounces next to her with an almost frantic energy while Monty hustles around in his usual collected manner to help Raven. It’s not long before Clarke begins to feel useless, so she excuses herself to walk around the camp with Miller and Monroe on either side of her, pointing out the weaknesses she sees in their defenses. Miller bristles at first, but when she offers a solution he’s quick to put others to the task, slowly starting to ask his own questions as they move from point to point. He’s insightful and observant without losing perspective; she sees why he’s Bellamy’s second.

By the time they’ve made a lap around the perimeter, Octavia is preparing to leave. Clarke waits until Raven’s gone giving her final instructions, then pulls her into a brief, hard hug. “Be careful,” she tells her. Octavia nods against her shoulder, and with a final smile she’s off, a trio hot on her heels. 

“Now what?” Monroe asks.

Clarke takes a deep breath. “Now we wait.”

It’s torturous. The seconds seem to inch by; every sound makes her head snap towards the gate, wondering, hoping. Finally she gets irritated enough with herself that she wanders into Wick’s tent, where Raven is trying to ease him into a seated position.

“Easy, easy,” she murmurs. He grunts a little, but shoves himself up, leaning against a table leg with a sigh of relief.

“Hey doc. Any word from the outside?”

“Nothing yet.” She crouches on his other side, scrutinizing the wound. “How far do you think you can get, if you had to move?”

Raven leans forward. “What are you thinking?”

“You are too exposed here. It would be better to be inside the dropship. Put as many things between you and the fence as possible.”

“You really think that’ll be necessary?”

“I think it would be smart. If you can manage it.”

Wick sets his jaw as Raven slips her hand into his. “I can manage.”

Clarke nods, hiding her smile at his tenacity. “Wait here. I’ll bring some help.” She hops up and finds Miller and Monty, ushering them into the tent. Each puts an arm under Wick’s shoulder, bracing him as he stands. He’s sweating with the effort. Clarke hurries to clear a spot on the floor of the ship, hearing Raven bark at anyone who’s even near getting in the way. They nearly drag him the last few steps, setting him down as Raven hovers while pretending not to.

Remembering the medicines on the second floor, Clarke scrambles up the ladder and returns with one of the small vials clutched tightly in her fist. She takes it to Raven first.

“Just a few drops will make one drowsy, so-”

“Hell no, I’m not about to sleep when there’s an _attack--”_ Raven’s palm covers the rest of Wick’s sentence, though he doesn’t stop glaring.

“I don’t think she’s suggesting we use it now.” A dark eyebrow arches in her direction. “Are you?”

Clarke shakes her head. “In the event you need to be moved, it’ll be easier on everyone if you’re not awake for it. Seeing as walking the few feet from your tent already has you in such pain.”

Wick grumbles under his breath but doesn’t argue, and Raven slips the vial into her pocket with a nod of thanks.

_BOOM!_

She lurches to the side as the ground trembles beneath the ship. Fearful yells echo around the camp, but Clarke can only look at Raven in silent wonder. The other girl grins wickedly and winks before Wick’s loud laughter cuts through everything else, and he yanks her down for a long kiss.

“That’s my girl,” he announces afterwards, smug as can be.

Clarke rushes outside, feeling others behind her, and stares at the dark plume in the distance that tells her all she needs to know. _She did it._ Her stomach coils nervously as they stand rooted to the spot, waiting for the group to return. 

It takes longer than it should. She can tell at once when the others begin to shift, when even her own pulse won’t calm. There are too many _ifs_ in her mind, too many paths to disaster. Still she remains there, watching, trying to bring them all back through sheer force of will.

The first figure to burst through the trees is Jasper. Others follow, but she doesn’t see the faces that will quiet her pounding heart. The lanky boy speeds towards them, words spilling out before he’s even come to a full stop.

“Octavia was hurt,” he gasps, and Clarke feels her lungs seize up with fear. “She’s alive,” he assures in the next breath. “She’s-- she’s with Lincoln. He said he can help her.”

“Does Bellamy-”

“He knows. He’s the one who asked. Didn’t want her in the middle of a battle if she was already injured.”

“Where _is_ Bellamy?” She asks, starting to feel a bit frantic herself.

“I don’t know. He said he was going to create a diversion. Told us to get back here, and just… took off.” Before her frustration can boil over, Jasper grabs her elbow. “There’s something else. The Grounders- your people, they weren’t anywhere nearby, Clarke. Not even a peep. Lincoln said to tell you. I don’t- I don’t know what it means.”

She knew. “It means they will attack from another direction.” She turns to Miller. “Tell your watchers to keep a close eye. But don’t shoot. If you take the first shot, this will be over before it begins.”

Motioning to Jasper, she asks, “Which way did Bellamy go?”

“East, I think. Opposite Lincoln.”

It makes sense. Lincoln is likely taking Octavia to one of their lesser known hideouts. But that means Bellamy is out in the open with a group of angry Reapers, or worse, on his tail. Without another word, Clarke begins to march for the gate, only glaring when Jasper and Monty refuse to leave her side.

“You’re not going alone,” Monty informs her. “He’s our friend, too.”

“Someone has to stay behind to take care of your people. I know the land better than either of you.”

Unfazed, he replies, “That may be true, but who’s going to look out for you?”

“Why do you even care about me?” She asks.

Monty smiles like she should already know the answer. “Because Bellamy does.”

The words give her pause, long enough for him and Jasper to tuck a pistol in their belts. Then Monty hurries over to a smaller tent, unwrapping a small cloth bundle as he returns. Inside are her knives. He smiles. “Bellamy said to give them back to you.”

Gratefully, she slides them into their familiar slots on and under her clothes, feeling comforted by the steel against her skin. Now she’s ready.

_”Clarke!”_

All three of them whirl around at Miller’s shout. He’s pointing over her shoulder, eyes wide. Clarke whirls, expecting to see _Trikru_ headed her way. But that’s not what he was warning her about. There’s a flash of movement in the trees-- a mask here, a suit there. It’s not her people who have arrived.

The pink smog fills the air without warning. It swarms her nostrils, her throat, burning. Her vision blurs as she sways unsteadily. Around her, others begin to cough, and the air is soon filled with the sound. Her lungs put up a fight, only resulting in a repeated hacking as she falls to her knees.

The last thing she sees are suited men, their dark masks filling her vision right before she succumbs to darkness.

~~~~~~~~~

When Clarke awakes, she’s in a pristine room, nothing more than four white walls surrounding her. Rising from the bed, she takes in her own white clothes with unease. There is a small square window pane in the door. She looks out into an empty hallway before locking eyes with Monty in the room across from her. His expression is one of relief, though it transforms into uncertainty as he points at the sign.

_Mount Weather Quarantine Ward._

Everything in her recoils. She’s inside the mountain.

~~~~~~~~~

No one will talk to her. It’s been _days,_ or so she thinks-- time is one thing she can’t quite keep track of in her little cell. That’s what it is - a cell. The others have been taken elsewhere, and she doesn’t know why, except that she hasn’t seen Monty at all in the last two times she’s been awake.

It finally comes to a head one day when she sees a suited man enter Monty’s now-empty room. She yells and bangs on the door to no avail. For whatever reason, they can’t hear her. _I’ll make you listen._

There’s nothing in the room to help smash the window, so her elbow will have to do. A few tries later, she smashes the pane, ignoring how the glass scrapes deeply into her arm when she reaches out to unlock the door. She picks up a broken shard and ventures out, creeping up on the man without a sound. When she’s close enough, she grabs them in a chokehold, fighting to contain their struggle. When she lays the sharp edge against their neck over the thick suit, he stills. 

She yanks off the mask of the suit, only to find a girl inside. Her mouth opens to scream, then closes when Clarke puts the shard back to her throat in warning.

“Tell me where the others are,” she rasps.

“They’re not here. I swear. Please, don’t-- I can take you to them.”

“Do not lie to me,” Clarke warns.

“I-I’m not. I swear. You want Jasper and Monty, right? They’re on another floor.”

After a moment, Clarke turns them towards the door-- only to find several guards in the entranceway. She doesn’t lift the blade. “I will kill her if you come a step further,” she says, hoping she doesn’t have to make true on the words.

“That won’t be necessary, Clarke.”

The guards part to reveal an older, grey-haired man. His serene smile doesn’t fool her one bit. She’s too focused on the calculating glint in his eye, the authority in his voice that says he’s used to being obeyed.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you and your Sky People.”

She stiffens, unsure if he means what she thinks he does. How could he know? Unless… she had been wearing their clothes when she was captured, not her own. So it’s possible he thinks she’s one of them. Realizing it might be the only thing keeping her alive, she goes with it.

“Then tell me where they are.”

He raises his hands, placating. “Fifth floor. The cafeteria. They’re eating lunch. Today is venison, with pie for dessert. Right, Maya?”

Clarke doesn’t wait for the girl to answer. “Take me there,” she demands.

“Let Maya go, and I will. Come now, I trusted you, so you should trust me, yes?”

It’s not that simple at all, and she almost wants to laugh, but that wouldn’t be smart. She can’t be rash-- her actions could affect the others. She has to wait for an opening. So she finally drops back, releasing Maya from her hold. But she keeps the glass shard in her fist.

“Maya, get Clarke some new clothes please.”

She listens as the man introduces himself, explains that she has nothing to worry about, explains that she and her people are safe. Her eyes sting every time he mentions _her people_ \- where is Bellamy? - but she waits silently, not willing to give away all her secrets at once. She changes swiftly in the protection of the room and is marched upstairs soon after.

Monty flies at her first, startling her with the force of his hug. Unsure, she taps his back tentatively until he whispers, “You’re with us now,” and then her arm bands around him more firmly.

Jasper is more eager to believe than she is. She doesn’t blame him. She can see how infatuated he is with Maya, and thinks it might be mutual, given time. But she can’t shake the awful feeling she has, how her neck tickles every time Wallace smiles at her, how her hands itch to use the silverware for something other than eating, how her dreams are filled with Bellamy crashing through the woods, surrounded by Reapers. She wonders if Lincoln and Octavia made it to the cave. She wonders where Raven is. If Wick is alive.

She can’t stand not knowing.

There are guards everywhere in the mountain. They patrol every hallway, every corner that she tries to turn. Monty and Miller don’t try to dissuade her from it. If anything, they linger, continuing to create distractions, doing their best to get in the way of anyone who might follow her when she takes a stroll. Their trust warms her to no end, but their attempts always end in vain. Still she spends the nights making maps from memory, needing to feel useful in some way.

It’s clear to her by now that they’re being watched somehow, or at least that someone is listening. Conversations are not private. She drops purposeful hints about where she intends to go next, satisfied when she sees an extra patrol in the space merely a day later.

One afternoon while everyone is busy elsewhere, Clarke takes things into her own hands. The cut on on her arm has begun to heal slowly, but not much. Gritting her teeth, she finds the jagged wire curling out from under her bunk, dragging her arm over it and eventually biting her own shirt to stay quiet.

The medbay is silent, only two other bodies that she doesn’t recognize on the cot. Dr. Tsing is too casual for her liking. She pretends to lie down in her hospital gown, closing her eyes and waiting for the _click clack_ of heels to fade. As soon as the door shuts, she’s up, searching the room for something, anything.

She finds it in the other patients. They are clearly from the mountain, but their skin is covered in strange burns. She notes the path their own tubes take, running up from their skin to a different matchine than hers, which then hooks into a series of pipes along the wall. Curious, she follows them only to find she can’t get past a heavy door into the next room. The air vent catches her attention next, and soon she’s wiggling through the narrow space, pushing out into the room.

An ugly sight awaits. Two bodies - one boy, one girl - hang upside down from the ceiling, wires attached to their bare torsos. Red seeps through the tubes and into a collection chamber. Clarke stops, horrified, then swivels around at the noise behind her. People are crammed into cages, their bodies folded unnaturally to fit inside the too small space. _Her people._ Bile rises in her throat as she swallows the scream that wants to force its way out.

Her disgust turns to fury. _How dare they?_

A slow murmur spreads through the cages as she carefully walks among them. When it starts to get too loud, she snaps _“Shof op!”_ They quiet down, though their gazes remain.

Just as she turns, she hears, “Clarke?”

Her heart stops.

She whips around, searching frantically for his voice. It comes again, stronger, from the last cage in the row. She doesn’t remember running, just dropping to her knees until she sees his unruly curls and dark eyes through the bars.

“Bellamy,” she breathes. He smiles briefly, and she’s not sure if she’s thankful or terrified that he’s here.

She leans forward until her forehead touches the cool steel, her face inches from his. Her fingers shake as they trace his face, the line of his bruised jaw, the cut under his left eye. He grasps her hand and brings his mouth to her fingertips.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asks.

Bellamy’s grin is reckless fire, stirring her blood to new heights.

“I think it’s about time I saved you, don’t you think?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading! So I fully intend on a companion piece to this, from Bellamy’s perspective. It will likely go off the rails more from season 2 events; rating might be different too. But I honestly have no idea on timing with everything else that’s going on. In any case, I hope you enjoyed it! Now I’m locking myself away to do the term project I ignored while writing this.


End file.
